My car is 14 years old. It’s dented, scratched, and rusty in places. It squeaks and rattles and the tires provide a rather lovely, rhythmical “womp-womp-womp” that speeds and slows with acceleration and deceleration. There are warning lights on the dashboard that never go out, no matter what service I have done, and though the odometer is approaching 160,000 miles, I’m confident that with the help of my excellent mechanic, I can keep my car humming another few years. At which time, my husband and I will drop down to one car between the two of us. We like things simple.
Alas, the other day, I found myself stopped at a stoplight and surrounded by much newer, shinier, spiffier vehicles. There was one in particular that I found to be quite beautiful, a chic make I’d never heard of in a lustrous, rich red. Later, I looked it up: it cost $90,000 for the most basic model. I don’t make that much money in two years. Of course, I no longer work full time, and I have chosen a profession I love though the compensation is modest. But still. For a moment, I pined with new-car envy.
But the truth is: I love my old car. It suits me. We understand each other. I’m creaky and dented and have very little pick-up myself. I have worn out parts that will eventually need replacement, and I’ll never be as fast and agile as I once was.
Plus, we have history. My car has kept me safe through hail and snowstorms on the highway and one hit and run accident. It has carried me to my chemo treatments, surgery, and long winding road trips to give retreats. My car took my husband and me on our honeymoon and has brought me safely to a thousand visits with friends and family. Most important of all, my car has delivered me to countless Masses, confessions and Holy Hours. It’s old and beginning to fail, true — but it has done what it was meant to do with as much style and grace as it could muster. It has been faithful to its purpose.
I hope I have been — true to the life that the Lord has given to me, entrusted to me –– a good steward of my resources and purpose even as I slow down.
I’ve said a hundred times in the past year, “Aging is not for the faint of heart.” It’s true that aging well takes the heart of a lion. An old and tired lion but a lion nonetheless. I hope I’m aging well, with grace and humility. I hope I will embrace new limitations, new scratches and dents and needs for repair with style and a sense of humor rather than with grasping and terror. And though Jesus never knew the strains of aging, he certainly knows the strains of sin and death, and I know he will help me in this great challenge.
It’s tempting sometimes to want a different body or a different life, a spiffier model, one that looks new and fast and shiny, without dent or wrinkle or arthritis. I marvel at the mystery of aging, something Jesus himself never had to endure and I wonder what he’d think about the way I’m doing it.
Lord willing, when and if I get to heaven, I’ll have a new body, a resurrection body that doesn’t break down, doesn’t suffer disease or bone spurs or dementia. Until then, oh Lord, help me to remain faithful to my purpose and to rest in the knowledge that I am made new in the sacraments. As I paraphrase the words of Isaiah, let them swell in my heart: Even to old age you are God, even when I turn gray you will carry me. (46:4) Amen.
Stanchina is the community leader for Women’s Formation at Bishop Barron’s Word on Fire Institute and the award-winning author of more than a dozen books. Visit her website at LizK.org.
